


Escape

by Scarylady



Series: Secret Service [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-31
Updated: 2011-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarylady/pseuds/Scarylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Five of the Secret Service series:<br/>Alistair has hightailed it to the Vigil with his lovers for his first holiday since... well... ever.</p><p>Contains slash, D/s voluntary servitude, bondage and spank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

 

 __

 _  
-oOo-_

When he heard the clatter of breakfast trays being deposited outside the door, Alistair went immediately to collect them, only waiting until the servant’s footsteps faded down the hall before opening the door and carrying them in.

No-one was permitted in these rooms, other than by the express permission of his _padrone_. Only Aedan was permitted to enter freely, as and when he was able between his duties.

Alistair had not left the suite since his arrival at the Vigil three - was it three? – days ago. He had not left the room, had not worn clothes, and had not once expressed a wish or a desire other than to serve.

He couldn’t recall ever having been happier.

He checked the contents of the trays, ensuring that all was as it should be, before moving to wake Zevran. He was certain that the assassin was awake; any noise in the room brought him to instantaneous wakefulness, but the morning ritual would be carried out, by both of them.

 _  
“If you insist that you wish to do this, Alistair, if you indeed wish to submit yourself over a more significant period, then everything must be just as I wish it. This is not a little sex game to pick up and put down, you understand?”   
_

_  
“Yes, padrone.”   
_

He hadn’t, not really, but he did now.

The first day had, in some ways, felt like other times they had spent together – still a game they were playing – but after their first flush of passion had been sated, it quickly became clear how things had changed.

 _  
“The strap, the paddle, they may be used at any time. Not because it brings you pleasure, and not always because you deserve to be punished, but merely because I wish it. I shall beat you because it will make you soft and accepting, as I desire you to be. Now, bend over, like so.”   
_

_  
“Yes, padrone.”   
_

It hurt. Maker, _how_ it hurt. Unless the _padrone_ said that he wished to hear him, he should keep his mouth closed. Unless he was specifically told that he was to squirm, he must hold position. Tears had rolled down Alistair’s face; his cries and groans had been sealed behind his lips. Only once the strap was finally stilled and set aside, did Zevran kiss away those tears, praising him on his courage and beauty. But however much it hurt, however much he wept, Alistair’s cock had remained iron hard, a testament to his true feelings. 

Always he was hard, for that had been the other main change.

 _  
“You shall find release only when I permit it. If you come without my permission, then you will be punished. You exist for my pleasure, and it pleases me to see you so beautifully hard. Sometimes I may choose to bind your gorgeous cock, but bound or not, you will obey me in this.”   
_

_  
“Yes, padrone.”   
_

Every moment of the day was a torment of need. Every act of submission increased it, every service he did for his _padrone_ , every spank, every caress, every touch. Zevran touched him often - seemingly absent-minded caresses upon any part of his body which was to hand. Alistair bit down on his groans and concentrated on keeping his hips still, on not shaming himself before his _padrone._  In this heightened state, everything was exquisite. Yesterday, Zevran had bound him so cleverly - with straps and thongs - that even the mere act of breathing pulled gently on his cock and balls. He had then been commanded to kneel for what felt like an age, with those tiny tugs driving him crazy.

Alistair had existed in this state of pure denial for two full days, until it seemed to him that he had always been so, always filled with such aching need that the tiniest touch, the softest kiss, felt more meaningful than anything he had ever known. Zevran had taken his own release often; brought to ecstasy by his _schiavo’s_ lips and tongue, or sliding over that sensitive bump deep within him, while Alistair’s cock pumped vainly, futilely straining to follow him over the precipice.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. He never wanted it to end. 

The love he felt for his _padrone_ was sublime, transcendent; so far beyond such simple concepts as affection, or romance, that he had no words to articulate it. 

All he could do was attempt to express it through service. The breakfast tray must be just right. The sweet pastries with which his _padrone_ preferred to start the day must be perfectly fresh. The imported Antivan coffee must be strong and hot. These were Alistair’s own strictures and, for once, being the king came in handy; the Vigil’s kitchen staff strived to meet his requirements without complaint.

Alistair slipped the trays onto the table beside the large bed and pulled back the heavy bed-curtains. The abandoned sprawl in which Zevran lay, arms raised and crooked around the pillow, sheet artfully slipping around tanned hips, showed quite clearly that he was awake. The assassin would never sleep in such an exposed pose.

The swirl of dark tattoos disappearing under the pale sheet, the flat, muscular stomach and sharp hipbones, made Alistair want to kiss down from there to all the hidden places, which he was quite sure was the point behind this pose. Even so, if he touched the _padrone_ without permission, then there would certainly be a price to pay.

Still, it was definitely tempting…

 _  
-oOo-   
_

Through the merest slit of a partially-opened eye, Zevran watched his _schiavo_ admiring him. With great deliberation, he stretched slightly, as though to push his head a little further into the softness of the pillow, and saw the ghost of a grin turn up the corner of Alistair’s gorgeous mouth.

 _  
My little innocent is learning fast; he knows I’m awake.   
_   
If this were Aedan, then Zev would bet real money on his breaking the rules at this point, with an utter disregard for the consequences. A week ago, he would have bet the same money that Alistair would behave impeccably. Now? For the first time, he saw the decision being weighed in his lover’s face. 

 _  
Well now, isn’t this interesting…   
_

Although he kept his breathing slow and even, Zev mentally held his breath, waiting to see which way his new _amore_ would jump. He watched as Alistair slipped to his knees beside the bed, and hid a mournful sigh. 

 _  
Ah well, it is a promising sign for the future, no?   
_   
So, when Alistair leaned forward and deliberately laid a kiss on his exposed hip, it took Zev sufficiently by surprise to make his eyes fly open in shock.

Alistair began pouring coffee into cups as though nothing had occurred. Zevran turned onto his side, propped on an elbow and watched him. There was a dilemma here. Punish him and risk ruining breakfast? Or save it for later and perhaps lessen the impact?

 _  
Hmm, no real need to choose.   
_

“Hands and knees.” The command was snapped out and Alistair obeyed immediately, stopping only to put down the coffeepot. “Back straight, head down.” His _schiavo_ adjusted as best he could, and Zevran swung his legs out of bed and made one or two small corrections to the angle. Perfect.

The breakfast tray was laid across the flat plane of Alistair’s back. Zevran usually permitted him to eat at the same time, but today the kitchens must be told that the King required a fresh breakfast. Their curses would fill the air far away from here.

He heard Alistair’s breathing change as he realised what was happening, and saw a quiver go through his frame that made the dark surface of his cup ripple. This was _delizioso_ , far better than anything he could have planned. “Be still, or you shall spill my _caffè_.”  It went without saying that doing so would provoke further punishment. 

Zevran took his time over his breakfast, deliberately drawing out the experience. When he finished eating, he poured himself a second cup of coffee and watched his handsome table struggle to remain perfectly still. Alistair’s expression was a thing of beauty; humiliation, pleasure, humiliation _at_ his pleasure. He was making a conscious effort to control his breathing, which kept attempting to devolve into panting breaths that would undoubtedly cause a spillage.

Aedan’s abrupt entry into the room did nothing to assist Alistair’s equilibrium. He was fully dressed; linen trousers and shirt and a battered leather doublet. To Zevran’s knowledgeable eye, this meant he was working within the Keep today.

“You were up early, my Warden. Would you like some breakfast, or some _caffè,_ perhaps?” Zevran gestured carelessly at the tray and Aedan, taking in the situation at a glance, laughed softly, sealing Alistair’s discomfiture.

“Coffee would be good, but you may need a new table. One of my patrols just came back in; they tell me that Fergus is on his way up the Pilgrim’s Path.” There was another quiver from Alistair, and his entire body tensed, but he made no sound.

“Oh? Is he not here to see _you_?” The possibility of having their secluded idyll cut short annoyed Zevran; he had many plans and little time in which to fulfil them. Alistair must now be withdrawn from the state of mind he had entered, and then re-immersed in it later. This was not healthy for his _schiavo_.

Aedan took the coffee his lover handed him. “If he’d come up the Coast Road, then I’d say yes. The Pilgrim’s Path means he’s come from Denerim. Maker knows what Eamon’s bribed Fergus with to interfere, but would you care to bet whether that’s why he’s here?”

Colourful Antivan curses flowed from the assassin. He lifted the tray from Alistair and slid it on the bedside table. “Up, _tesoro mio_.   Playtime is over, I’m afraid.” He cast an eye over the King’s glorious nakedness, as Alistair rocked back onto his heels with an aggrieved scowl. “Although I think we may have to play a little longer; otherwise you shall give the Teyrn an eyeful he will not quickly forget.” 

“Mmm, he might actually put Fergus’ eye out.” Aedan eyed his friend thoughtfully, as he sipped his coffee. “Has he been a good boy?” Alistair showed no signs of resenting this question, merely looking to his _padrone_ for the answer.

“Overall, I would say he has. Apart from a small incident this morning - his punishment for that is not complete.”

Aedan put his coffee cup down and began stripping off his clothes. “Well, once you’ve cleared that little matter up, he deserves a treat, don’t you think? Seeing as Fergus is set on ruining the day for all of us.”

“An excellent notion, my Warden.” Zevran reached over from the bed to take Alistair’s face between his. He kissed him quite thoroughly, drawing a moan from the tortured King.   The assassin drew back slightly, smiling wickedly. “My poor Alistair, you have had no breakfast because of your naughtiness. You’ve earned a little time with the strap, we must see to that first. Afterwards,” he breathed, trailing his lips over soft mouth and flushed cheek, “how would you like a nice… _sandwich_?”

 _  
-oOo-   
_

Fergus Cousland was not a happy man. Intruding unannounced on the King was just not done, even if Alistair _was_ staying with Fergus’ own brother.  _Aedan will see right through this_ , he reflected gloomily. Even though it had been five years since the Blight, Fergus had never really come to terms with how much it had changed his younger brother.

He hadn’t realised it at first - the aftermath of the Blight had all been smiles and joyful reunions, celebrations and parades. It had been an agreeable surprise to find that his sibling was the new King’s best friend, and a rather less pleasant shock to realise that the - extremely dangerous-looking - elf who never left Aedan’s side was, in fact, his brother’s lover and an Antivan Crow. Having had an Antivan wife, Fergus knew all too well what _that_ meant.

However, it wasn’t until Amaranthine came under attack, and Fergus mustered his men and marched down to assist, that he realised just how much Aedan had altered from the happy-go-lucky boy he had known. He had arrived too late to assist with the siege of Vigil’s Keep, and heard instead that his brother had departed with only three other Wardens to take on some hideous, twisted fiend they called the Mother. Horrified, Fergus had set off in hot pursuit with a full section of soldiers, but once again arrived too late.

The sight of his brother stepping out of that dreadful place was something he would never forget. The Warden Commander had been like a man possessed, driven by a fury and determination Fergus had not even known lurked inside him. Aedan’s dark eyes had looked straight through him; he was neither an obstacle nor a threat, and therefore in that moment he did not exist.

It had chilled Fergus to the bone. The moment passed, and recognition flared in Aedan’s eyes, but the Teryn had never forgotten it. However much Aedan may laugh and joke as he used to, however much devilment lurked in his eyes, beneath it lay something granite-hard which rolled over obstacles as though they simply weren’t there. In some ways, his little brother had gone forever, and in his place stood the Warden Commander, the Arl of Amaranthine…

… _and the scandal of Ferelden_ , thought Fergus ruefully.  _Mother would be horrified at his antics_.

And therein lay the problem. 

If it had been anyone else involved, then Arl Eamon’s unmanly flapping and squawking over the King’s defection would have been amusing. Maker knew, it was time that Alistair kicked over the traces; by all accounts he was a dutiful King, and had thus far been a model husband to that cold fish Eamon had found for him. But the news that Alistair had decided to enact his little rebellion by going off to stay at Vigil’s Keep for three weeks…

Neither Fergus, nor any sane man, would deny the King the right to a little discreet fun, but the Warden Commander and his insatiable assassin had all the discretion of a whore at a chantry picnic. They flaunted their conquests, gloried in their appetites, hiding nothing from the avid, envious eyes of the Ferelden nobility. Rumours abounded, and most of them were likely true. Wild parties at the Vigil, orgies in Denerim, every possible perversion had, at some time or another, been accredited to the infamous pair of lovers.

 _  
Maker’s hairy balls, by the time Aedan and his unprincipled elf have finished touting Alistair around the place, there’ll be royal bastards all over Amaranthine.   
_

This was why Fergus had reluctantly agreed to go to the Vigil, while privately wishing he’d just picked a different time to turn up in Denerim. Someone had to try to put a lid on this before it erupted into a full-blown scandal and, much though the Teyrn hated to admit it, he was the best candidate by far.

 _  
Maker help me.   
_

_  
-oOo-   
_

A strapping from Zevran was personal in a way that had to be experienced to be believed. He made each lick speak to his _schiavo_ ; they could be as sweet as a kiss, as sensual as a caress. In his hands the leather curled lovingly around the contours of your body, warming more than merely your skin. This morning, however, after one appraising look at his tense, jittery lover, the _padrone_ declared that it would be best if Aedan strapped Alistair. The warrior grinned with savage satisfaction, and rapped out a series of orders.

Whereas Zevran preferred to whip his _schiavo_ on the bed, on hands and knees, with his rump angled high, Aedan opted for the spanking bench. 

Alistair was accustomed to being told, in a gentle voice that brooked no refusal, that he must remain still and quiet, in order to please his _padrone_.   Today he was firmly secured by wrist and ankle and tightly gagged, and Aedan’s deep rasp informed him that he was free to squirm and groan as much as he was able. 

Initially, Alistair was determined to show the same self-discipline he usually did. His _padrone_ was watching after all, seated in the chair directly ahead of the bench, his amber eyes staring intently into Alistair’s. He wanted those beautiful eyes to glow with pride.

But, after only a short warm-up, he began to realise that a strapping from Aedan was nothing like he was used to. The big man whipped him with an impersonal, single-minded intensity which quickly began to break down his resistance, until he could no longer remain still. The strap was unrelenting; it punished every inch of his backside and then moved down to his thighs, before moving back up again.    Alistair pulled against the restraints, knowing they were firm, but unable to prevent himself from doing so. His body danced on the bench under the rain of blows, strangled noises escaping from behind the gag. The gaze of his _padrone_ was a torture, exposing him, stripping him naked and he turned his head, trying to escape that too.

“Blindfold him.” 

Alistair barely heard the instruction over the regular crack of the strap, but registered immediately the movement of his _padrone_ to comply. Thick darkness engulfed him and this last deprivation… it was too much, too much. Now there was just the strap; he couldn’t escape, couldn’t beg, and couldn’t see.    His rump blazed with fire, the welts from the first pass being revived with each lick of the strap, soaring to new, stinging life. He was only dimly aware that the strangled pleas and sobs he could hear were his own, choked by the gag. Tears soaked the thick blindfold as he fought and squirmed, freed by the restraints from the need to control himself. 

The strap continued to fall, scorching heat and pain searing across his skin, and after a time he gave himself to it, surrendering completely. He would be punished for as long as they wished it, he had no choice, no will. His body still danced to Aedan’s tune, and groans were still ripped from his throat, but Alistair accepted the whipping, embraced it. There were no decisions to be made here; there was no weight of expectations upon him. 

He was not a King, unable to help as many as he wished; not a husband, unable to connect to his wife; not a father-to-be, afraid of failing his child. He was not even an obedient slave doing his best to please his master. There was just Alistair, absorbing this undemanding form of attention like a parched desert absorbs rain. And, like such a dry plain, he relaxed as he soaked it up; as he absorbed the heat, the pain, the unbearable, unendurable pleasure. The tensions of his life, which had returned in one, excruciatingly painful moment when Aedan said that Fergus was on his way, drained away under the torrent of punishing blows.

 _  
-oOo-   
_

The Seneschal was clearly uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, His Majesty is with the Commander and cannot be disturbed. May I arrange some refreshment for you?”

Fergus nodded, and waited until the man had ordered a servant to fetch some ale before pursuing the matter further. “If he’s with my brother, that’s no problem at all; I’d actually like to see both of them. Are they in his study?”

If Aedan’s Seneschal had seemed uncomfortable before, that was a mere trifle compared to the unease he emanated now. “I couldn’t say, Your Grace.”

 _  
Won’t, more like.   
_

Look… Varel is it?” Upon receiving a slight, affirmative bow, Fergus pressed on. “Varel, if the Arl is in private conference with the King, that’s all well and good, I’ll wait. But I have to say, when you can’t even tell me where they are, it seems rather fishy.” He lowered his voice, glancing at the various Wardens and guards passing through the receiving hall. “Tell me frankly, they have wenches with them, don’t they? Come now, do you think I don’t know my own brother?”

 _  
-oOo-   
_

The body hovering above his was beautiful; all hard planes and heavy muscle over skin of a pale gold, so much lighter than Zevran’s bronzed form. The concentration on Alistair’s face was intense; Maker knew how long Zev had been denying him.  Aedan ran his fingers down the taut belly to the point where they joined, and with a final gasp Alistair seated himself fully, and leaned forward, almost folding Aedan in half, panting with the effort of control.

Aedan took his friend’s dear, sweet, much-loved face between his hands and kissed him long and lingeringly, distracting them both from the imperative to move, while behind Alistair, Zevran took up his own position. Then came the sublime moment, when the groan that erupted against his lips heralded the Antivan’s entry, mirroring in Alistair’s face his own pleasure at being filled.

“I- I can’t-” gasped Alistair, already hanging on to control by his fingernails.

“Don’t worry,” Aedan reassured him gently, stroking his sweat-damp hair, “when you do, just go deep and _don’t move_.   Trust us.”

They hung there a moment in blissful togetherness, joined together like a necklace of beads, or a child’s daisy chain. It was still a source of amazement for Aedan to see Alistair like this, abandoned to pleasure, after so many years. The thought sent an additional surge through his groin just in the moment when Alistair made his first tentative movements inside him. Maker, it felt good. He kissed and sucked at the salty sweat on the sturdy throat above him as his lover began to rock between them, sliding half-out to meet Zevran’s groin behind him and then back in, slipping over sensitive nerves as he moved within Aedan’s arse.

“Mmm, you feel fabulous.” The little compliment spurred Alistair on, but already his breath was coming in sharp pants, his long-denied orgasm edging past his control. “Go on, give in to it, let it go.” The words released something primal in Alistair. He flung his head back, eyes squinched shut and teeth bared in a silent scream as Aedan felt the cock deep within him swell and pump. His own cock jerked in response, and he hummed in appreciation, watching waves of sensation crash over Alistair, seeing his mouth go soft in the aftermath. He seized the narrow hips, holding him firmly, trapping the wilting cock within him, as Zevran began a strong rhythm. Alistair whimpered as the elf’s hips slapped against the sensitive whipped flesh of his arse and they heard a dark chuckle as Zev deliberately pinched his welts.

The sudden arch of Alistair’s back at the additional pleasure-pain pushed him even further within Aedan, while his cock began to thicken and harden again. Aedan laughed, delighted, and Alistair’s mouth crooked in response as he leaned down for another kiss. “Good old Warden stamina,” murmured Aedan against his mouth. Denial also made a big difference; one orgasm just wasn’t going to cut it.

Now that the effects of denial were out of the way, they could all enjoy themselves properly. A rhythm was found, stuttering at first, until Alistair got into his stride. Aedan closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of a hard cock stroking within him and the mouth moving against his. He was such a big, bulky man; he rarely got to take this position, beneath and facing his lovers. This closeness, the nearness of the muscled body above him, the kisses and caresses they could share, was a special treat.

Zevran was murmuring in Antivan; a litany of love for his men and pleasure in what they did together. Aedan had learnt enough Antivan over the years to be able to pick out most of it, although he kept that a secret from Zev, not wanting to ruin his outlet. That mellifluous voice had been his constant companion through so many sexual adventures; he’d hate for it to be silenced.

“Alistair, you are so damned sexy.” Aedan added his own voice to their joy, loving how the man’s face lit up at the compliment. “You feel good, you look good,” he licked up the golden throat to rough bristle, “and you taste good.” He reached down to stroke his cock and instantly his gratification doubled. None of them were going to last much longer; Zev was pushing Alistair hard, his hips snapping, forcing the pace for all of them. Alistair was making small noises of intense need and pleasure, his tense arms beginning to shake where they held his weight. Aedan lay beneath them, with his legs folded back against Alistair’s chest and his hand wrapped around himself and took it all; the pounding rhythm stroking him with such passion, such sensation…

His orgasm surged up from behind his balls, his cock swelling in his hand and he heard Alistair cry out as Aedan clenched around the hard length inside him. For a moment everything went away, buried under pleasure so powerful it burned away thought and reason. When he returned, it was to a chain reaction; his spasm had toppled Alistair over the edge and the top of his red-gold head leant against Aedan’s shoulder as shudders racked his frame. Beyond him, Zevran was buried deep, his gorgeous head thrown back, his stomach muscles quivering with the intensity of it all.   The thread of connection between the three of them went far beyond mere body parts.

Aedan set his jaw in sheer determination; he’d be _damned_ before he’d allow anyone to bully Alistair into giving this up.

 _  
-oOo-   
_

 

Varel greeted the appearance of King Alistair and Commander Aedan in the Arl’s receiving hall with obvious relief.    Zevran, slipping in behind them and, taking up a position behind the throne, could see why the usually unruffled Seneschal seemed so edgy. The Teyrn had clearly been making difficulties over the delay, but unfortunately it had been inevitable – Alistair could not be expected to move from slave to King too quickly, the transition took time. After their sexual gymnastics, the two of them had bathed him, and rubbed salve into his raw backside, while they waited for the kitchens to prepare his breakfast. By the time he had eaten he was ready to put clothes on, which was a feat in itself after several days of total immersion.

Now, apart from a pronounced wince as he sat down, Alistair appeared as he ought, with nothing to alarm the Teyrn. Although, Zevran mused, if Fergus had any sense he would tread warily; the look in Alistair’s eye suggested that he was not pleased at this uninvited interruption of the first holiday he had taken since ascending to the throne. His first words confirmed this.

“Teyrn Cousland, I’m surprised to see you here. As you have specifically asked for an audience with me, rather than with the Commander, I assume you are not here to discuss either the Arling or darkspawn incursions.”

“Your Majesty.” The Teyrn bowed, rather than kneeling, as befitted a man of his rank. “I trust you are well.” The bland courteous greeting was no doubt deliberate; a nobleman’s trick to highlight the King’s rudeness in bypassing the civilities, without causing offence. 

“What’s this about, Fergus?” Aedan, standing at the King’s side, barged impatiently past any attempt to turn this audience into a Court game of cut and thrust. “Alistair came here to take a well-earned break, so it had better be good.”

Zevran saw the Teyrn’s eyes flick to the King, looking for a reaction to the interruption. From his position behind the throne, he couldn’t see Alistair’s face, but Fergus’ shoulders dropped and he sighed. “If we’re going to _completely_ dispense with formality, can we at least go somewhere where we can sit and talk?” 

Alistair turned to Aedan and arched his eyebrows questioningly. The Commander nodded. “We can use my study.”

 _  
-oOo-   
_

Aedan’s study was a fairly large, comfortable room which contained a number of armchairs by the fire as well as a desk positioned to catch the maximum amount of light. Fergus found it odd that they were assembling here, though. Surely the King had been assigned a suite with a sitting room, as was customary? It was usual for informal meetings to be held there and, thinking about it, the Vigil definitely had such a guest suite, as he remembered visiting Cailan there, years ago.

Fergus was also unhappy to see Aedan’s elf follow them into the room, seemingly with every expectation of being included in this conference. Maker’s blood, his brother gave the fellow too much licence. What place did the Warden Commander’s bedmate have in a meeting between the King and his nobles? He knew better to say anything, however; Aedan doted on the Antivan and the elf had a demon’s own effrontery. Any attempt to have him ejected could only lead to Fergus’ discomfiture.

Aedan flung himself into a comfortable chair, making no demur when his elf draped himself over the chair-arm, his hand laid across the headrest. The King seated himself somewhat more sedately, easing down among the cushions; why this should bring a smirk to the Antivan’s face was beyond Fergus. The Teyrn took the third chair, opposite the King.

Alistair shot him a disarming grin; one that was so reminiscent of his royal father and brother it was startling. “Now we’re all settled, Fergus, you can get it off your chest. What does Eamon want you to tell me?”

Fergus shifted uncomfortably. “Sire,” he began, but the King raised a hand, stopping him.

“Call me Alistair, please. For once, I’ve managed to escape to the Warden stronghold to be with my brothers and sisters, don’t spoil it any more than you have to.”

That didn’t bode well for the discussion to come, but Fergus pressed on. “Alistair, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to come here, and I wish I didn’t have to, but although we all know that Eamon is an overprotective old woman, he does have some grounds this time, at least.”

“Oh?” The King’s expression was a curious mix; rebellion certainly, determination in the set of his chin also, but a flush was rising up his face that suggested embarrassment. “To what are you referring?”

“Yes, by all means let’s hear Eamon’s excuse for dragging Alistair back under his eye.” Aedan’s deep growl was sardonic, and he folded his massive arms across his chest, eyeing his brother. “Some ambassador that he simply _must_ meet? A trade agreement he absolutely has to be present for? Or is he trotting out the old chestnut ‘trouble in the Bannorn’, as though there isn’t _always_ trouble there?”

Provoking though his brother was, Fergus kept his attention on the King. Tempted though he was to brangle with Aedan, much as they had when they were children, it wasn’t going to help. “Eamon finds your choice of holiday accommodation a little strange, si- Alistair. A Grey Warden stronghold isn’t exactly the most salubrious place in Ferelden, after all.”

Amusement lit Alistair’s face. “Except that I _am_ a Grey Warden, in case everyone has forgotten. If I hadn’t taken the throne, this would be my home. Also, it’s the seat of the Arl of Amaranthine, my closest and most trusted friend in the whole of Thedas. Who else would I visit? Where else would I be greeted with a complete lack of ceremony?”

Fergus tried another tack. “The Queen is heavily pregnant. Surely you don’t intend to be absent for the birth of your heir?”

“Maria isn’t due for another six weeks at least, according to the midwife; I’ll be back in three.” Alistair’s tone brooked no opposition; Fergus had occasionally seen him like this in Landsmeet sessions. He was an easygoing man, but had an inflexible streak. The Teyrn wondered what had triggered this reaction, not to mention the matching, and far more obvious, obstinacy evident in his brother. “If that’s Eamon’s concern, then you can put his mind at rest; if Maria goes into labour early, a fast messenger can find me; I promise I’ll be on a horse before he’s finished speaking.”

The Teyrn sighed faintly and squared his shoulders. He really hadn’t wanted to do anything as drastic as tell the truth; the King’s disfavour was not easily risked, even setting aside Aedan’s reaction.

“The thing is, you might only be visiting your closest friend, and my brother, but in the eyes of the Court you have holed up in the home of the man with the most scandalous reputation in Ferelden. Rumours are already beginning to circulate.”

“ _Meraviglioso_! This is overdue, yes? It is not good for a King to have _too_ pure a reputation. He must be seen to be a man.” Despite resenting the intrusion of Zevran’s dulcet tones into the proceedings, Fergus couldn’t help but privately agree with him, albeit with some reservations.

“Perhaps so, but only within reasonable limits. Alistair, please forgive me for saying so, but becoming embroiled in Aedan’s affairs can only cause damage in the long run. You need to be _discreet._ ”

“And we’re not, is that what you’re saying?” Aedan sounded amused, rather than angry. “Tell me, Fergus; who exactly did you have in mind who would take better care of Alistair than we will? Would you rather he was in the talons of some rapacious harpy, looking to be set up at Court as his mistress?”

Aedan’s questions didn’t make any real sense to Fergus, so he ploughed on, his attention on the King. “I wouldn’t deny any man the right to sow some wild oats, but with discretion, don’t you see?”

Alistair was regarding him thoughtfully. “I have to confess; originally I thought as you do, that this exposure was a step too far. But Aedan convinced me it would be alright, and I believe him.” He turned his eyes to Aedan, a little troubled, before returning his attention to the Teyrn. “Tell me, Fergus, as I understand you knew him quite well – didn’t Cailan make,” the King blushed and waved his hand generally in the direction of the Commander, “this kind of choice on occasion?”

Fergus blinked at him, bewildered by the sudden change of direction. “Cailan… well, he sowed his fair share of wild oats, I won’t deny it. But I doubt you’ll be bothered by any of his by-blows popping up to threaten you. He was as discreet as a man can be, as far as I know.”

There was a small silence, as all three men stared at him. It was split by Aedan’s full-blooded roar of laughter. “So _that’s_ what this is all about! Maker’s hairy bollocks, Fergus; why the hell have you been dancing around it for the last half an hour?” He stood and stretched, suddenly much more relaxed, and made for a decanter and some goblets on a table in the corner. “If that’s all that’s worrying you, put your mind at ease. We aren’t stupid; any women who Alistair is exposed to will be given a potion first to ensure that there won’t be any problems. We have one of the best herbalists in the land, here.”

Aedan returned, bearing four goblets in one meaty paw and the decanter in the other, and began to pour wine. Fergus accepted a drink, both relieved and baffled. If royal bastards weren’t an issue, what had they all been so wound up about? A second goblet was handed to Zevran, who took it and sipped delicately. The Commander casually filled the remaining two as he walked over to Alistair, and put the decanter down before handing one of them to the King. It was only as Alistair took it from his hand that the truth exploded over Fergus. The look between them, the easy, comfortable way in which their fingers overlapped on the stem… Aedan’s elf was watching the Teyrn, a knowing expression in his alien golden eyes.

 _  
Maker’s fucking blood, really?   
_

Aedan had always been a womaniser when he was a lad. As far as Fergus knew, he’d never expressed any interest in men until he met the Antivan elf. Rumours now pegged him as sleeping with both men and women, but there had never been the slightest whisper about the King’s sexuality. Nothing.

It explained all kinds of things. Why the King didn’t have a separate sitting-room to entertain visitors; the question about Cailan; the massive delay this morning when neither of them had been available.  _Andraste’s tits, this is their idea of discreet? Surely every servant in the Vigil must know what’s going on._

 _  
Eamon will have conniptions.   
_   
That thought derailed Fergus’ indignation at their indiscretion, and he choked down an unexpected chuckle. Aedan had returned to his seat – it appeared that only the Antivan had seen Fergus’ reaction. He debated whether to leave it that way or not. Certainly Aedan was right about one thing; better that the King took a Cousland for a lover than some grasping strumpet.

Zevran took the decision out of his hands. “It would appear that your dear brother has finally caught up with current events, _caro mio_.  Perhaps now we can speak more freely, yes? You Fereldens are so uptight; this could all have been settled in one little minute.”

 _  
Damn that little troublemaker. Maker knows what Aedan sees in him.   
_

The King blushed vivid crimson, although his jaw was set and determined. “Oh? Well, that’s probably for the best. This isn’t going to be my only visit to the Vigil, so it’s going to become common knowledge, I imagine.”

“And whenever possible, Zev and I will be in Denerim when Alistair has to be there.” Aedan scowled forbiddingly at his brother. “I hope you’re not going to try to talk him out of it, Fergus. Between me, and Eamon, and everyone’s expectations, we’ve fucked up enough of Alistair’s life. Anyone wants to take this away from him; they have to get through me first.”

“Hush, my Warden. Your brother has done nothing to warrant these threats.” A certain amount of menace threaded through the Antivan’s words as he continued, “There will be others, no doubt, more deserving of our _attentions_.”

 _  
Both of them. He’s screwing both of them.   
_   
_The gossipmongers are going to have a field day_. Fergus scrubbed at his beard, frustrated with all three of them. “Look, just… leave me out of it. If I’d known, then Eamon could have done his own dirty work. All I was worried about was you muddying the succession. But could you all just try to exercise a little sense? Just because there’ll be rumours is no reason to wave your dirty linen around in public. For the Maker’s sake, Aedan, get Alistair some separate quarters here, even if he doesn’t use them for anything other than meetings. Leave people to draw their own conclusions, but don’t _confirm_ anything.”

Aedan laughed. “What, you think we’ll speak to everyone the way we just did to you? Maker’s blood, Fergus, that’s because you’re _family_. When you’re not being all political, I trust you, alright?” He stood and came over to pull his brother out of the chair. The grasp of their forearms became a bluff hug which did Fergus good. Just for a moment, it was as though Howe’s attack and the Blight never happened, and he had his little brother again.

 _  
-oOo-   
_

The next couple of days passed in comparative harmony. Fergus stayed with them for one night only before continuing on home to Highever, declaring that Eamon could hear _this_ news from someone else. It made Aedan sad to see him go; they’d been so close when they were boys together, but during the Blight he’d mourned Fergus as dead. However much joy he’d felt to find that his brother lived, Aedan had never been able to recapture the comfortable relationship they had previously enjoyed. He was a Warden, his brother was Teyrn, and their family were all dead. Nothing was the same; nothing could ever be the same again. And then there was Zevran.

He’d seen the looks that Fergus gave Zev, and had listened with as much patience as he could muster to the strictures that had fallen from his lips in the first year or so following the Blight. If _anyone_ other than his much-loved brother had expressed such contempt, they would now be dead. In fact, several were, starting with Ignatio the so-called Master Crow and ending, most recently, with a fast, brutal duel on the Amaranthine docks with a supercilious Orlesian Chevalier.   Aedan did not permit anyone to be disrespectful to Zevran and the assassin – although openly astonished the first time it happened - had learnt to accept it with the same unruffled calm which he applied to the insults that so provoked his Warden.

Both Aedan and Zev point-blank refused to allow Alistair to drop directly back into role from which they had been forced to unceremoniously yank him. Instead they arranged a series of entertainments for him; a day out riding, carrying a picnic in their saddlebags, to a secluded spot where they could take their pleasures under the sky; a tournament, where the knights and Wardens of the Keep could pit their weapon skills against their King.   

And an evening entertainment of a very different sort, one to which a select, discreet group - members of the Wardens, and staff of the Vigil unencumbered by sexual restraint - were also invited…

 

  _Continued in Part 6_


End file.
